Circle of Silence. Carol Tanzman M.
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Название: Circle of Silence
Автор: Carol Tanzman M.
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Детская проза
isbn: 9781408996119
isbn:
“Yeah.” Marci pauses. “I don’t actually think she’s right, but—”
“Don’t worry. You’re more my sister than Bethany will ever be.”
Marci giggles. “Okay. So maybe she is right. Which means you can’t rat Bethie out.”
“I’m not saying I’ll tell on her. I only said that to appease Mom.”
“SAT word!” Marci moans. “You’re not studying, are you?”
“You kidding? I’ve got enough on my plate.” Last-chance SAT is in a week—and then we start to apply to colleges. Neither of us wants to think about that, so I return to the discussion at hand. “It would be the ultimate revenge if Bethie has a boyfriend.”
“Because you don’t?”
“Yeaaah.”
“I hope she does.”
“Hey! Who’s BFF are you?”
“Yours,” Marci says. “Maybe this will get you to pay attention. I’m pretty sure Raul has the hots for you.”
“Very funny. He thinks I’m doing a terrible job. That the team would be better off if he was producer.”
“He told you that?”
“Not exactly. I can tell by the way he looks at me.” I remember his half-assed nod in the director’s booth.
“What about you? Do you like him?”
“I guess. Sure. He’s cute, but it’s not like I ever thought of him as boyfriend material.”
She pounces. “Then who do you think of as boyfriend material? If you even breathe the J name—”
“Don’t worry. I went off on him today.”
“Hallelujah!” Marci breathes. “What did he say?”
The elm in front of our brownstone has begun its yearly transformation. Yellow leaves, like shots of gold, shimmer between the green.
“He didn’t say squat, actually. You know Jagger. Doesn’t care about anyone—or anything—except his own butt.”
“That’s what I told you. The guy never changes. Pretty on the surface, devil below. Maybe it’s good he’s in TV. Lets you see him as he really is.”
Instead of answering, I contemplate the tree. For years, I assumed that leaves were naturally green. Then I discovered that chlorophyll, running through veins in the leaf, masks their true colors. Underneath, leaves are more beautiful than the surface allows us to see.
The nagging thought that Marci’s wrong—that what’s going on with Jagger isn’t that he’s shallow but that there’s something hidden deep inside—keeps me up half the night.
7
“Hey, you! News Girl!”
Standing in a doorway, Ms. Cordingley beckons. I make my way through the crowd of kids hurtling toward second period.
She wears a paint-smeared smock. “Thought that was you. What’s your name again?”
“Val. Valerie Gaines.”
She nods, although the name means nothing to her. I haven’t seen the inside of an art room since seventh grade. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation. MP.”
My heart immediately speeds up. “You found someone taking art with those initials?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then why—”
“Art History. That’s why I didn’t think of it right away. She took AP Art History last year.”
“She?”
“Mirabelle Portman. A junior. Do you know her?”
Everyone knows Mira. She might be the prettiest girl at WiHi—if you like your chicks with porcelain skin, pixie haircuts and the most amazing eyes on the planet. Elizabeth Taylor eyes, violet, which I didn’t think was an actual thing until Mira showed up.
“I forgot about her because she barely came to class,” Ms. Cordingley says. “Took the tests, of course, aced every one.”
“How can that be?”
The teacher shrugs. “Her mom runs the art department at City College. Mira knows more about the contemporary scene than me—or the critic at the Times. That’s what made me think of her. The more we see of MP, the more it reminds me of found art. Some Dada, of course, and a little Banksy in the way—”
This is not the time for an art lecture. “Sorry to interrupt, Ms. Cordingley, but I have to get to class. Thanks for the tip!”
Mira Portman? She most definitely does not have that underwear/toilet/body parts kind of vibe. But maybe that’s the point. Perhaps doll-like Mirabelle is a secret cutter. Or purger. Could this be a weird cry for help?
I find Marci right before she walks into her next class. She listens without interruption. When I’m done, she nods.
“You and I should talk to her at lunch without the others tagging along. Don’t want to scare Mira off.”
In math, I try to imagine dainty Mirabelle dragging a toilet up three flights of steps. No way. If it is her, she had help.
At noon, it’s my soccer-playing best friend who spots her in the crowded hallway leading to the cafeteria.
“Mira!” Marci waves. “Can we talk to you for a minute? In private.”
Her smooth face wrinkles in confusion. “It looks important.”
“It is,” I say.
A pair of doors stands behind us. Beyond that, a short staircase leads to an entranceway. A second set of doors opens to the street. No one’s supposed to leave during the day, so the tiny foyer is quiet.
“What’s up?” Mira asks.
“You must have seen those MP things—” Marci blinks as Mirabelle laughs. “What’s so funny?”
“I wondered if someone would think of me.”
“You’re MP?” My voice squeaks. Did we do it? Find the right person?
“No,” Mira says. “My initials are MP, but I’m not the person who did those stupid pranks.”
“One of the art teachers thinks they’re, like, cool pieces.”
Mira laughs. “Ms. Cordingley? Hasn’t a clue about contemporary art.”
“She СКАЧАТЬ